#not without parry or deflecting

[valkyurii]

watching radahn glazers defend the final boss fight with their life is so funny to me because these are the same people who laughed at malenia enjoyers back in the day for saying she’s a good fight

[kakuvibez]

HIIII

I really like your eah x twst works, so I wanted to do a request for Chase Redford!reader x Heartslabyul boys

yandere one shot + hcs; YANDERE HEARTSLABYUL

requested by ; anonymous/ @user / none,,

fandom(s) ; Ever After High, TWST,,

fandom master list(s): master | specific

character(s); chase redford! reader, riddle, Trey, cater, deuce, ace,,

outline; " ... "

warning(s) ; Yandere themes, obsessive behavior, manipulation, possessiveness, stalking (implied), gaslighting (implied),,

Signature Spell: SWORD - [N] possesses flawless swordsmanship and can replicate the technique of any student, but only one at a time.

"Rules are rules..."

Heartslabyul had rules-strict, unwavering, absolute rules. You followed them, not out of fear, but because it was second nature to you.

"Rules are rules," you murmured, twirling your sword between your fingers with practiced ease.

Riddle watched you carefully, crimson eyes glinting with something between admiration and obsession. A swordsman who follows orders without question... someone so precise, so disciplined... He needed you.

The air in the training yard crackled with anticipation. Ace, ever the showman, bounced on the balls of his feet, a cocky grin plastered across his face. "Alright, [N]! Let's see what you've got! Don't hold back, okay?"

Cater, hovering nervously behind him, tugged at his sleeve. "Ace, seriously, maybe you should reconsider. You know [N]'s ability, right? It's... it's kinda terrifying."

"Relax, Cater! It's just a friendly spar," Ace scoffed, dismissing his friend's concerns with a wave of his hand. He drew his sword, the metal glinting in the afternoon sun. "Besides, where's the fun if there's no challenge?"

You stood opposite him, your expression calm and collected. Your hand rested lightly on the hilt of your sword, your posture relaxed yet alert. You'd seen this coming. Ace, with his boundless ego, always had to prove himself.

"As you wish," you said, your voice even.

The match began.

It was over in ten seconds.

Your movements were a blur, a whirlwind of perfectly executed strikes and parries. You moved with a fluidity and precision that belied your usual demeanor, your body a perfect replica of a swordmaster's technique. The change was so drastic and sudden that even Cater, who knew of your unique spell, gasped.

Ace, caught off guard by your sudden ferocity, barely had time to register what was happening. Your blade danced around his, deflecting his attacks with effortless ease, before finding its mark. The cold steel of your sword pressed against his throat, the sharp edge a stark reminder of his defeat.

"Rules are rules," you repeated, your voice devoid of emotion. "You lost. Average at most..."

You sheathed your sword, the metallic click echoing in the stunned silence. Ace stood frozen, his eyes wide with disbelief. He blinked, trying to process what had just happened.

Then, something strange happened.

A flush crept up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. His heart pounded in his chest, and a strange heat radiated through his body. He felt a shiver run down his spine, a mixture of fear and something else, something he couldn't quite name.

He liked it.

The feeling of the cold steel against his throat, the absolute certainty of his defeat, the way your voice had sounded so detached and clinical - it was exhilarating. He'd never felt anything like it before.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Wow," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. "That was... intense."

Cater, still pale, rushed forward. "Ace! Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Ace blinked, his gaze shifting to Cater. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, his voice a little shaky. He looked back at you, a strange glint in his eyes. "Actually, I'm more than fine."

He grinned, a new, slightly unnerving edge to his smile. "[N], you're... you're really something else. How about we try that again sometime? Maybe... maybe a little slower this time?"

Cater stared at him, his mouth agape. "Ace, are you serious? You just got your butt handed to you!"

"Yeah, but it was... educational," Ace said, his grin widening. He reached up, touching the spot where your blade had been. "Really educational."

You observed him, your expression unreadable. You had noticed the change in his demeanor, the subtle shift in his energy. You didn't understand it, but you recognized the undercurrent of something new, something... different.

"If you wish," you said, turning away. "But next time, I won't be as lenient."

Ace watched you go, his eyes following your every move. He licked his lips, a strange excitement bubbling within him. He had a feeling he was going to enjoy this. He was going to enjoy losing to you, again and again.

Riddle Rosehearts: "You are the epitome of discipline. Your swordsmanship is unparalleled. It is only right that you stand beside me, [N] Chase. After all, rules are rules."

Ace Trappola: "I love your cold eyes! Your voice ugh the way you move your sword! I wish you can crush me again!"

Deuce Spade: "I respect your skill, [N/N]... but sometimes I wonder if you ever let yourself relax."

Cater Diamond: "Man, you're like a knight straight out of a fairy tale. If only you'd smile more, y'know?"

Trey Clover: "You follow the rules so well... maybe a little too well. That's why Riddle likes you so much."

Each of them has their own way of showing affection, but they all agree on one thing: You belong in Heartslabyul.

They despise anyone who tries to take you away, and since you wield a sword, they take extra precautions to keep you in check.

Your discipline and swordsmanship impress him. A knight with unwavering precision? You fit perfectly in his vision of a structured, rule-abiding Heartslabyul.

Riddle insists on supervising your training. He memorizes your schedule and ensures you only duel approved opponents.

If you challenge his authority? A swift collar will remind you who's in charge.

"You will follow the rules. No exceptions. I won't allow you to leave-Heartslabyul is where you belong."

At first, Ace is playful about it-teasing you about your swordsmanship, calling you "Heartslabyul's little knight." But deep down, he hates when your attention shifts to anyone else.

He goads you into sparring matches just to keep you focused on him. If he loses? He shrugs it off with a grin, but his eyes darken. He'll make sure no one else gets close enough to see that side of you.

"C'mon, don't be like that~ Why fight someone else when you have me? What, you think those losers are better?"

Deuce respects your skills deeply, almost to the point of worship. He sees you as an untouchable warrior, someone he must protect at all costs.

If anyone tries to challenge you, he steps in, fists clenched. "You don't deserve to fight them," he growls. "I'll handle it."

His devotion becomes suffocating-he'd rather shield you than let you use your sword. If he could, he'd break your weapon to keep you safe.

"You're too important to risk getting hurt. Let me fight for you."

Cater is obsessed with the aesthetic of your swordsmanship. He takes countless pictures, praising your every move like a fanboy.

But behind the smiles, there's paranoia-what if you leave? What if someone else captures your attention?

"Hashtag #MyKnight! You wouldn't dream of leaving your biggest fan, right?"

Trey is subtle in his possessiveness. He acts like the responsible older brother, always watching, always making sure you never stray too far.

If you start questioning things, he's quick to redirect you-gently, but firmly. "You're overthinking it. We just want what's best for you."

He won't force you to stay, but he'll make sure you feel obligated to.

The garden was silent, save for the clashing of steel. The moonlight glinted off your blade as you moved with practiced precision, deflecting Riddle's strikes effortlessly.

"Enough!" Riddle's voice rang sharp, his breath labored. His crimson eyes burned as he pointed his wand at you. "You're getting too reckless."

You scoffed, lowering your sword. "I was just practicing."

"You should only be training within Heartslabyul." Riddle's grip tightened. "What if someone outside challenged you? Tried to take you from us?"

Ace leaned lazily against a tree, grinning. "He's got a point, y'know~ Why waste your talent on others?"

Deuce clenched his fists, stepping forward. "If someone does challenge you, let me handle it. You don't need to fight for yourself."

Cater pouted, snapping a photo. "Yeah, like, what if you get hurt? Not a good look for our knight, don'tcha think?"

Trey smiled, but there was something unreadable in his expression. "We just want you safe. You trust us, don't you?"

To Heartslabyul, you were the perfect follower of their dorm's laws. To Riddle, you were something much more. A knight, a loyal subject, and maybe... just maybe... something he was willing to break the rules for.

Your grip on your sword tightened.

Heartslabyul wasn't letting you go.

Not now.

Not ever.

[apricot-blossomss]

Hey. I LOVE what you've been writing for Apollo. Could I request something preferably gn but up to you?

Something about a devotee of Athena and Ares' lover? Like they were a wonderful fighter, got spotted and gained Athena's favour (I was kinka thinking like Odysseus). I just thought the idea of one of Athena's heroes loving her rival

☛ athena's devotee! gn! reader having a secret love affair with ares

☛ sfw, fluff & angst, first oneshot for ares!

Peace had never really been an option for you. From a young age, your life had been marked by chaos, violence and war- all things you were good at. Maybe that was the reason meditation or calmly going into yourself just didn't work for you. Thus, you were making the training puppets the victims of your pent up frustration.

Being a hero of Athena had its blessings and curses, and you walked on the fine balance between the two. Hacking at the props blindly, your mind wandered to one of the more ambiguous side effects of your position- though it was all but inherent. But if you hadn't been a chosen devotee of Athena, you would have certainly never caught the eye of another god who had all but holy intentions.

Suddenly, one of the figures you were attacking parried and you ripped your eyes open, just in time to dodge a hit by your opponent and get a closer look at him. The initial shock turned into excitement as you deflected a blow and evaded the sword of the mighty god of war himself. With a new rush of adrenaline in tow, you ducked and attacked his flank. Effortlessly, his sword arm shot down, and he took advantage of your short moment of hesitation and his physical superiority to disarm you and make you unable to retrieve your weapon- or steal his, your speciality- by pulling you into his chest and locking you in.

With a mirth in your eyes that made him crazy every time, you smiled up at him. "We have to stop meeting like this, or I'll win again."

"Ts," he made and his dark baritone vibrated against your body, since he still held you snugly against his broad chest. "Only because I let you win." He released you, and in complete contrast to the brutal swing of his sword, his touch was now very gentle as he set you down. You appreciated it, because it was rare that anyone had a little gentleness for you.

"Whatever you want to tell yourself," you grin and saw him mirror your expression. The god bent down to get your sword off the ground and wordlessly handed it back to you. You took it and wrapped your smaller hand around his as you walked over to the shed where you kept your weapons. He let you take him there without any resistance.

Even after all these months, holding your hand was still a strange feeling to the god. Not only that it was so much smaller, it was so soft, and yet had the same small cuts and bruises as his. Not that Ares had ever been good at reflecting on, much less expressing his feelings, but he did know that holding your hand felt good.

"Rough day?," you asked, and he wondered how your eyes could still be so kind, even when looking at him, even after what your life had become.

"Rough life," he said and you laughed at his poor attempt of a joke. He resorted to what he could do best, aside from fighting: he frowned in response. Because he didn't want to let you see how your little laugh had his chest swell with- something. Something warm, something good.

"So, what do we do about that?" you asked and your peppy optimism made him chuckle. He did know one thing: life was hell for the both of you. Only he frowned, and you enthusiastically pulled him away from the fighting grounds to savor the little time you two had with each other at a more peaceful place- and yes, you were aware of the irony of that.

At a secluded spot on the beach, you rested in the shadow of a tree and put a head on his shoulder. With him, you were always the one to make the first move. In touching and kissing because Ares was very unsure of himself when it came to affection, in fighting because he was too sure of himself. You snuggled closer to him and he got the message and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. "Ares?"

A low hum was all you got in response. "Did you... did you tell Lady Athena about us?"

"No," he said curtly and looked down at you. His fiery eyes were somehow more calming than the quiet sea, or the soft wind. There had to be something wrong with you, that you could lie in the hands of destruction and feel more content than you would any other place. "Why?"

Chewing on your bottom lip, you looked back out onto the ocean, with its gentle, rippling waves, and wished you could parve a way through them to make them feel like you felt. Divided. "She asked me whether there was someone- someone more important to me than her."

"Am I?"

Shocked, you turned around and slapped him across the neck which only made him smile in amusement. "Gods, you're just as bad as her! Why does it always have to be a 'more' or a 'most' with you both?"

Ares gave you an apologetical smile and caught your hand, just to guide it into his locks, a rare show of initiating contact. "It always is with us. I'm sorry you're caught in between that."

"I love you both," you said stubbornly and caressed his scalp, making him groan in delight and rest his head on your shoulder. "Why can't I just love you both?" He didn't answer that question, and you were glad he didn't. Because the topic had turned awfully negative, you smiled down at him cheerily. "Well, at least it's exciting, all that sneaking around and hiding. Like a stealth mission with an unusually lovable partner."

"I'm not," he said, eyes closed and savoring your warm touch. "I'm not lovable. You are." It wasn't flirting, but maybe as close to it as he could.

"If you aren't lovable, what am I doing here?" you asked, making him look at you and hovering just over his lips in a silent challenge for him to close the gap between you.

"No idea," he whispered, something he rarely did, and leaned up to kiss you. Weirdly enough, Ares kisses were shy in the beginning, and as soon as you made them more, he exploded into a fervor of spit and passion and clashing teeth as if he had been constraining himself for too long. You knew why, he didn't have to tell you. Or rather: he did tell you, in the way he held your hands, your body, the back of your neck as he responded to you deepening the kiss with a series of passionate kisses, capturing your lips as if in a haze of fury.

It was you who broke away- never him, always you. Looking up into his restless eyes, in your own little world with him, breathing each other's breaths, you let your smile be, and he his frown. Just looking, just feeling, just thinking about each other and not sharing your thoughts because you trusted und knew each other enough.

"Being divided isn't so bad, you know?" you said and brushed his raven black hair out of his eyes, one of which being adorned by a vertical scar. "I'd be less whole, if I was- whole, you know?"

"I'm not good with your philosophical monologues," he said gently and pulled you closer, but you knew he understood, even if he didn't know he did.

🗡️

"Brother."

The last thing Ares wanted to talk to as he was drowning in the oh so sweet memories of last night was his tight-lipped sister and rival Athena. Still, he took notice of her by looking up from the attack he was overseeing on earth. He was surprised to find her not decked in her usual armor but dressed in a simple, functional tunic.

"May I sit?"

Grumbling under his breath and nodding, the god redirected his eyes to the battle down on earth. He had a good idea what she wanted from him, but he wasn't going to give it up. That she was the goddess of strategy didn't change the fact that Ares, too, understood the subtext here. The tunic meant a deal, a draw, that, if Athena had her wish, would result in her making him leave you.

He knew how she would do it, because he knew her. She wouldn't outright say it, she would break him down bit by bit, telling him he was not fit, he was going to cause you harm, that you deserved better. But it wouldn't work. Not because he knew it was wrong- it wasn't. But because, at heart, he was a selfish man. He loved you unconditionally, but as long as you didn't strike against him with the attempt to do harm, he would not leave you. And even then, he would never stop loving you, not ever. That he knew.

"They are not going to win, you know?" Athena said quietly as she seated herself beside him, nodding down to the battlefield.

"I know." Silence. "They will wreck unrepairable damage to their enemy, though." He felt Athena's grey eyes on him, but he didn't return their frown. His gaze had wandered- it had never been wholly focused on the fight in the first place. There you were. He spotted you, cooking dinner in your cabin for yourself. Always a bit more than necessary, in case he would come. He had been planning to.

"Is that what you're trying to do to me?" his sister asked him sharply and Ares' head shot around at the remark.

"This isn't about you"

"Of course it's about me." Athena let out a short, dry laugh. "It's about me and your pride. But they don't have anything to do with this. Leave them out of this fight, do not use them against me."

Ares had been wrong, and it felt like a gut punch. His sister didn't even allow him the grace to assume he could love you. Of course. He was just a bloodthirsty monster after all, unable to love, only lust and kill. Because he didn't know how else to say it, and because the heat bubbling in his chest threatened to explode into violent rage, he told her. "I love them."

"No, you don't," Athena hissed. "If you would, you would leave them alone. You are selfish and lustful, and you want to corner me, but it won't work."

"Are you trying to lecture me about love?" Ares scoffed, having a hard time containing his anger. "About selfishness? You are so self-centered, you can't even see- you can't-" He was raging now, which was always a bad move against Athena.

"They deserve better than you," she said coldly. "They deserve a gentle, loving spouse who will grow old with them and be there for them."

"Yes," the god confirmed. "But they chose me. Respect that, sister," he growled as his troops retreated and rose to his feet, uninterested in continuing the conversation. Athena was uncharacteristically quiet when he stormed off.

🗡️

The door slammed so hard against the wall that you jumped, even though you instinctively knew who it was. Not even a second later, strong arms closed around you from behind as you felt his chest heave against your back. His raspy voice next to your ear. "Kiss me or I'm gonna break something."

"What's wrong?" you breathed as you turned around in his arms and found yourself face to face with pure, unfiltered rage. His grip on you only tightened as if he was barely holding himself together. For a moment you were unable to breathe at all as you looked into his eyes.

With a long groan, his lips clashed with yours. In the heated kiss, you could feel all his pent up frustration, all his anger and fury. It was amazing. You kissed him back, standing on your toes for better access, and he hoisted you up onto the counter effortlessly. "Don't- fuck- don't look at me," he mumbled in between kisses.

Instead of an answer, you brought your hands into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer to you. His wandered to your waist as his lips travelled down your neck, biting and marking like a man possessed. Moaning out a curse, you reluctantly pulled away from him. "Ares- if she sees the marks-"

"She knows," he muttered darkly, continuing his ministrations as you felt your lungs constrict. Unable to think about the consequences of this as he was covering your neck and collarbone in marks and bruises, you let his rough hands slip under your shirt, kneading your waist. Ares cursed when you pulled at the roots of his hair and you could feel his hot breath caressing your ear. "You're mine, right? You love me?"

"Y-yeah," you chocked out as he nibbled at the base of your throat. "I'm yours, I love you." The only answer you got was a guttural groan. Suddenly, you felt the tension leave his body as he slumped into you, hiding his face in the marked up crook of your neck. His arms encircled you as he caught his breath slowly. How fast had he sprinted to get to you?

You released your grip on his dark locks and opted to brushing through them gently. With a low hum, you let him catch his breath and cool his anger, curling into your body, as you caressed his hair and shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Yes"

The answer surprised you. As he looked up from your neck, you could see that the fiery storm in his eyes had calmed slightly. For a second, he looked really tired, before his signature frown adorned his face once more. "But not here. Not now."

You nodded and pecked the tip of his nose. "I'll draw you a bath, alright?" Only reluctantly, he let you go and when you slipped through the door, he propped up his head on his hands, rubbing his temples. They deserve better than you. Yes, you did. But he knew he couldn't give this up: your kisses, your hands caressing his hair, your understanding eyes and soothing voice that called out for him from the bath.

The tub was still a little too hot, but that was exactly what he needed. Laying down in the warm water, he looked up at you with your shining eyes and breathtaking smile. How could he be the god? You were divine.

Running a sponge over his shoulders softly, your hands traced his many scars and he felt himself grow self-conscious under your observant eyes. "I'm not... beautiful," he said into the silence, in lack of a better term. Surprised, you looked up at him and frowned. "Yes you are. Have you seen yourself?"

He didn't answer, so you leaned down, put your arms around his soaked, naked shoulders and ran your lips up and down his scars. Your hair grew moist as you rested your head on his shoulder, intertwining your hands with his. "You are the most beautiful man I know. Inside and out."

Ares couldn't believe you, but the words still felt nice, as did your touch, so he only leaned into it, sighing into the relief you offered his restless soul.

They deserve better than you.

He tried to drown out the words and only concentrate on you. If he could, he would write you elaborate declarations, but that wasn't his thing, so he only kissed your temple softly and closed his eyes, knowing he was safe with you now, for however long that may be.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

[blankie-greenie-anon]

I know Taiyi is confirmed to be outmatched by Nezha and Ao Bing when they don't hold back, so I want a timeskip.

A year passes after the events of Nezha 2, and everyone has been nonstop training the whole time – including Taiyi.

The first scene we get of Taiyi, he's sitting on an open space in the painting, reading a scroll (An Immortal Prepares) in a relaxed manner. In the distance behind Taiyi, two attackers are watching him, and when they strike, his back is still facing them until the very last second, when he swiftly evades and deflects Nezha and Ao Bing.

The two are adults now—four years old but physically in their early twenties. They've also gotten new clothes. I'm thinking Ao Bing could wear something with short yet still huge sleeves, and Nezha continues to be anachronistic.

They're fighting Taiyi barehanded and without magic while he gets to use his fly-whisk (he wouldn't be able to match them otherwise). Taiyi is able to dodge and parry the two for a decent amount time before he slips up and Nezha is almost about to land a hit. That's when Taiyi ends the spar.

Then it's time to review the two's current skill. Ao Bing is slightly too inflexible with his technique; Taiyi is now able to predict his moves after a few training sessions. Nezha gets impatient and would default to hard and rough combat over the softer techniques Taiyi is trying to teach him. He tells them to go meditate for a while afterwards.

Nezha and Ao Bing have to meditate on different islands in the painting, or they'll distract each other for sure (mostly Nezha distracts Ao Bing). Of course, Nezha just astral-projects over to Ao Bing and goes inside his head, where they're both sitting on a beach with the sun setting in the horizon. Ao Bing acts annoyed and tells Nezha to go back. Nezha doesn't want to and moves closer. Ao Bing doesn't even try to kick him out of his mind. They talk for a bit about whether this training will be enough, or if it even is the right kind to prepare them for their upcoming battles with the Chan sect. In the end, they agree that, as long as they're together, they can accomplish anything. Their hands touch and intertwine, their faces slowly closer...and suddenly Taiyi's hand reaches in and yanks Nezha back by the collar because Taiyi is using his fly-whisk to extract Nezha's spirit out of Ao Bing.

[scriptumsempra]

Sighs

Pairing:  Sebastian Sallow x f!MC Word Count: ~ 700 Summary: They swoon. She rolls her eyes. But perhaps there’s something to sigh about, after all. Tags: No Y/N, Fluff, Unspoken Feelings, Subtle Romance, Female MC, Angst with Fluff A/N: This is one of my first-ever fanfics, which, funny enough, was inspired by my good friend’s recent trip to the hospital (he’s completely fine, don’t worry!). English isn’t my first language, so please be kind with any mistakes!

There’s something about Sebastian Sallow.

It’s not his wit, nor is it his natural charm. It’s not the way he adjusts his pace to match hers, or even how he saves her favourite pastry at breakfast.

She wonders what it is.

Is it his brown curls : how they bounce so effortlessly, sometimes wild and unchased, but always knowing how to fall in the right place.

Or is it the freckles scattered across his face, like constellations she’s not meant to trace?

She might be academically gifted, but this still remains a mystery.

How their sighs differ from hers.

They swoon.

She rolls her eyes.

They say he’s irresistible.

She says, “More like insufferable.”

Because here’s the thing.

They say he’s charming.

They mean the kind of charm that drifts in easily—unguarded, unscripted. The offhand remarks, the laughter that slips out mid-sentence, the way he remembers the smallest things people say and brings them up weeks later, like it costs him nothing. He doesn’t try to be noticed. He just is.

It annoys her, frankly. That kind of unconscious appeal. The sort that wraps itself around a room without even meaning to.

And his wit— oh, they love that. The way he always has something clever to say, how he’s never at a loss for words.

But she’s noticed it’s less wit and more… weapon. All edge and flourish. Sarcasm spun like silk. He doesn’t just speak; he parries. He jabs. He deflects.

They say he’s adventurous.

She calls it mischief, plain and simple. He doesn’t crave thrill—he craves trouble. The kind of boy who would charm a stairwell into moving, just to see someone trip. (He has. She did.)

They see him through rose-tinted glass.

She sees the cracks.

And more than that, she sees what everyone else lacks.

Like the time he handed her his last Wiggenweld potion during their midnight escapades—no fuss, no expectations—just knowing she needed it more.

How he once wordlessly reorganised her parchments and secretly annotated her notes when she fell asleep studying Charms, simply because she’d exhausted herself the night before, running other people’s errands.

Or when he quietly slipped a warm scarf around her shoulders after a long walk through the snow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Little things. Barely-there things.

His acts of service needed no public announcement—quiet, effortless, and entirely hers alone.

And perhaps she could go on rolling her eyes if those were the things he hadn’t done.

If he hadn’t quietly taken the blame when Scribner caught her in the Restricted Section, bearing the consequences without hesitation.

If he hadn’t remembered that she doesn’t like pumpkin juice and swapped hers for tea before she could sit down.

If he hadn’t done all of it so plainly—so unceremoniously—as though it was just natural. Expected. As though caring for her was habit, not effort.

That’s when it starts to shift.

The mischief becomes something else. A kind of stubborn loyalty. A refusal to let the world be unkind to her.

The sarcasm softens too. Still sharp, yes—but sometimes, only for her amusement.

And the charm?

It’s not so irritating now.

Not when she realises he doesn’t offer it to everyone in the same way. Not when she remembers that half of what they sigh over, she’s never seen him do. That some of it—maybe most of it—is just reserved for her.

It flips, then–

All her careful distance, her catalogued faults, her smug dismissal.

Because she’s the one who sees the worst of him, the cracks and the selfishness and the fury, and he’s never hidden any of it.

And still—he sits beside her now, a little too close for comfort. (Not that she’s ever minded.)

Their arms don’t touch. Not quite. But she can feel the heat of him, steady and unbothered.

And then—he looks at her.

Not the grin he gives the others. Not the teasing smirk or the rakish glint in his eye.

Just a genuine smile.

Plain. Bare.

Like he knows she’s been thinking too loudly again.

She looks back.

And maybe that’s the moment it changes.

Maybe that’s when she stops pretending not to know what it is about him.

Maybe that’s when her sigh slips quietly—traitorously—into the chorus of theirs.

Yet, there’s something about Sebastian Sallow.

Still, she dares,

not knowing when—

only that now her sigh has joined theirs.

[andy-15-07]

The Legacy of House Harkonnen

masterlist ! pairing Feyd-Rautha x reader

Summary: Feyd trains his daughter, Lysandra, while Y/n reminisces about their past joys and the family's enduring bond, showcasing a lineage of strength and love.

Dune Masterlist

The vast training arena echoed with the metallic clangs of swords as Feyd Rautha Harkonnen, the feared and formidable heir to House Harkonnen, sparred with his daughter, Lysandra. She was seventeen, possessing her father's sharp wit and agility, a true reflection of her lineage.

"Faster, Lysandra!" Feyd urged, his voice echoing across the training ground. "You're leaving yourself open."

Lysandra nodded, her focus intensifying as she countered her father's strikes with swift precision. "I'll do better, Father," she promised, determination gleaming in her eyes.

Feyd smiled proudly, his heart swelling with paternal pride. "Good. Now, remember what I taught you about footwork. It's crucial to maintaining your balance."

As they continued to spar, Y/n watched from the sidelines, a soft smile playing on their lips. They remembered the day Lysandra was born, the joy and happiness that had filled their hearts as they held their newborn daughter for the first time. It seemed like only yesterday, yet here she was, a skilled warrior in her own right, training alongside her father.

Memories flooded Y/n's mind, transporting them back to the early days of their marriage, when Feyd was not just the heir to House Harkonnen, but also a devoted husband and father. They recalled the tender moments they had shared, the laughter and love that had bound them together through triumph and adversity.

Lost in reverie, Y/n's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden clash of swords as Feyd and Lysandra engaged in a particularly fierce exchange. With each strike and parry, it was evident that Lysandra had inherited her father's skill and determination, a testament to the legacy of House Harkonnen.

"Feyd, watch your flank!" Y/n called out, their voice filled with concern.

Feyd heeded their warning, swiftly adjusting his stance to deflect Lysandra's attack. "Thank you, my love," he said, his gaze briefly meeting theirs before returning to the fray.

As the training session drew to a close, Feyd and Lysandra stood facing each other, their breathing heavy but triumphant. It was a scene that filled Y/n's heart with pride and joy, knowing that their family's legacy would endure for generations to come.

"Well done, Lysandra," Feyd praised, a hint of admiration in his voice. "You're improving with each session."

Lysandra beamed, her eyes sparkling with gratitude. "Thank you, Father. I couldn't have done it without your guidance."

Feyd placed a hand on her shoulder, a rare display of affection from the stoic warrior. "You have the potential to surpass even me, my dear. Never forget that."

Y/n approached them, a sense of contentment washing over them as they watched father and daughter share a moment of mutual respect and admiration. "You both make me proud," they said, their voice filled with love.

Feyd and Lysandra turned to them, their expressions softening with affection. In that moment, surrounded by the echoes of their past and the promise of the future, they were reminded of the unbreakable bond that bound them together as a family, a legacy that would endure for eternity.

[small-z24]

One-Shot: Shadows of Destiny

Summary:

Amidst the turmoil of a heated argument, an explosion forces Y/N to protect Azriel, resulting in both of them being injured. As Y/N tends to Azriel's unconscious form, the mating bond snaps into place, revealing their deep connection. When Azriel awakens, he must confront his feelings and the bond that has been hidden for years. Together, they face their newfound reality, united by a love that can withstand any challenge.

Word Count: 1118

Warnings: This story includes scenes of violence and injury, emotional distress, and themes of fear and guilt. There are mentions of medical procedures and some explicit language. If any of these topics are triggering for you, please read with caution.

The training room echoed with the clash of steel and the heavy breathing of the two combatants. Azriel and Y/N had been sparring for hours, their frustration and emotions fueling every strike and parry. The tension between them had been building for weeks, and tonight it had finally reached its breaking point.

"You're holding back!" Y/N shouted, her voice trembling with anger as she swung her blade at Azriel.

He deflected the blow with ease, his expression hard. "I'm not going to hurt you, Y/N."

"I don't need your protection, Azriel!" she snapped, stepping back to catch her breath. "I need you to treat me like an equal."

Azriel's jaw tightened as he lowered his sword. "You are my equal, but that doesn't mean I want to see you hurt."

Y/N’s eyes flashed with fury. "You don’t get it, do you? You never do! I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be coddled. I’m a warrior, just like you!"

Azriel’s shadows swirled around him, mirroring his agitation. "I know you’re strong, Y/N. But I can’t just turn off my feelings for you. I care about you too much."

"Care?" Y/N scoffed, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. "You think this is about care? It’s about respect. If you can’t respect me as a warrior, then what’s the point?"

Azriel took a step closer, his eyes burning with intensity. "I respect you more than anyone else. But watching you get hurt... it tears me apart."

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. "Why? Why does it matter so much to you?"

Before Azriel could respond, a sudden explosion rocked the training room. The walls shook, and debris rained down around them. Y/N’s eyes widened in horror as she saw a large piece of the ceiling break free, heading straight for Azriel.

Without thinking, she lunged forward, pushing him out of the way. The debris struck her instead, knocking her to the ground. Azriel scrambled to her side, his shadows wrapping around them both protectively.

"Y/N!" he cried, his voice filled with panic.

She groaned, pain shooting through her body. "I'm fine," she managed to say, her voice weak. "Just... get us out of here."

Azriel scooped her up in his arms, his heart pounding with fear and guilt. He carried her out of the training room, his shadows helping to clear a path through the rubble. Once they were safe, he laid her down gently, his hands trembling.

"Stay with me, Y/N," he whispered, his voice breaking.

She nodded weakly, her vision blurring. "Azriel..."

As she lost consciousness, Azriel’s heart shattered. He had failed to protect her, failed to keep her safe. The guilt and fear consumed him as he held her close, his shadows wrapping around them both in a protective cocoon.

Y/N awoke in the healing quarters of the House of Wind, her body aching but her mind sharp. She tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Easy," Majda, the healer, said softly. "You’ve been through a lot."

"Azriel," Y/N gasped, her heart racing. "Where is he?"

Majda’s expression turned somber. "He’s alive, but he’s in bad shape. He shielded you from the worst of the explosion. He hasn’t woken up yet."

Y/N’s heart clenched with fear and guilt. She had pushed him out of the way, but he had still been injured protecting her. "I need to see him."

Majda nodded, helping her to her feet. "He’s in the next room. But you need to rest too, Y/N. You’re still recovering."

Y/N nodded, but her focus was on Azriel. She moved to the next room, her heart breaking at the sight of him lying unconscious, his body covered in bandages. She approached his bedside, tears streaming down her face.

"I’m so sorry, Azriel," she whispered, taking his hand in hers. "I should have been more careful."

As she touched him, a sudden warmth spread through her, and she gasped as the mating bond snapped into place. It was an overwhelming sensation, a connection that went beyond anything she had ever felt. She knew, in that moment, that Azriel was her mate.

"Azriel," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please wake up. I need you."

Days passed, and Y/N stayed by Azriel’s side, her heart aching with the knowledge of their bond. She spoke to him, telling him stories and sharing her feelings, hoping that her voice would reach him.

Finally, one evening, Azriel stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked around, disoriented. When his gaze landed on Y/N, a wave of relief washed over him.

"Y/N," he croaked, his voice weak.

She leaned forward, tears of joy streaming down her face. "I’m here, Azriel. I’m right here."

He reached out, his hand trembling as he cupped her cheek. "I thought I lost you."

She shook her head, her heart overflowing with love. "You saved me. You always save me."

Azriel took a deep breath, his eyes filled with emotion. "Y/N, there’s something I need to tell you."

She nodded, her heart pounding. "I know. I felt it too."

His eyes widened in surprise. "You did?"

She smiled, her tears falling freely. "Yes. The bond... it snapped into place when I touched you. I know you’re my mate, Azriel."

Relief and joy filled his eyes as he pulled her into a gentle embrace. "I’ve known for a while," he admitted, his voice trembling. "But I was afraid. Afraid of what it would mean for us."

She held him close, her heart bursting with love. "We’re in this together, Azriel. Always."

Their lips met in a desperate, passionate kiss, the weight of their words and the bond between them igniting a fire that had been smoldering for too long. They poured all their frustration, love, and longing into that kiss, finally allowing themselves to embrace the bond that had been waiting for them.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, their breaths mingling. Azriel’s shadows wrapped around them both, a protective cocoon that shielded them from the world.

"I love you, Y/N," Azriel whispered, his voice filled with reverence.

"I love you too, Azriel," she replied, her heart full and whole.

In that moment, they knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them together, united by the bond that had finally snapped into place. Their love, forged in the heat of argument and tempered by their shared strength, was unbreakable. And as they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, they knew they had found their true home in each other.

[novaursa]

For a request, maybe a rhaegar targaryen x sister reader who is similar to Visenya? Like she’s the warrior type and kind of stern and stoic??

Dragon's Dance

- Summary: Rhaegar was the only one who knew your soft heart.

- Paring: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The clang of steel echoes across the training yard, a rhythmic song of battle that draws curious eyes from the gallery above. You stand across from your brother-husband, Rhaegar Targaryen, a gleaming blade in your hand. His indigo eyes are intense, focused on you, yet there is a softness beneath his gaze that only you have ever seen. You tighten your grip around the hilt of your sword, feeling the familiar weight that has always brought you comfort.

"Shall we begin, my prince?" you say, voice calm, the hint of a challenge lacing your words.

Rhaegar’s lips curve into a slight smile as he raises his blade. "Only if you promise to go easy on me, ñuha jorrāelagon," he teases, his voice carrying that gentle warmth reserved for you alone.

You scoff lightly, taking your stance. "Ñuha prūmia, don't expect mercy today," you reply, using the Valyrian term you only ever use in private moments. It has always been your way—your fierce exterior crumbling just a little in his presence.

Without another word, you move. Your sword arcs through the air, and he meets your strike with a resounding clash of steel. The power behind your attack makes his arm tremble, but he holds firm, his smile widening as he steps back, deflecting another blow aimed at his shoulder. The two of you circle each other, boots scuffing the packed dirt, your movements like a deadly dance.

Rhaegar’s fighting style is graceful, calculated—each swing and parry precise, as if he is playing his harp, coaxing music from the strings. But you, you fight like a storm. Unrelenting, fierce, a force of nature that does not yield. Your strikes come faster now, driving him back step by step. He manages to block each one, but it is clear you are pushing him to his limit.

Sweat beads on his brow as he tries to counter, his blade slicing towards your side. You twist, narrowly avoiding the strike, and bring your sword down towards his shoulder. He manages to catch it with his own blade, but the impact forces him to his knees. You press the advantage, your sword at his throat, the cool metal just grazing his skin.

"Yield," you command, your voice low, your breath mingling with his as you stand over him.

Rhaegar laughs softly, lowering his blade. "I yield, sister, you have bested me again," he says, his voice a blend of pride and affection. The formal tone falls away as he looks up at you, indigo eyes shimmering in the afternoon light. You can see the love there, and something within you softens. You step back, offering him your hand.

He takes it, his fingers entwining with yours as he rises. The training yard fades away, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. Rhaegar’s free hand comes up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You are magnificent, Y/N. Truly,” he murmurs, his thumb caressing your cheek.

Your heart, always so guarded, melts at his words. “You flatter me, Rhaegar,” you reply, your tone teasing but your eyes warm. “Are you trying to make me forget how I had you at my mercy?”

“Never,” he says with a smile, drawing you closer. “I would not dare. I am merely stating the truth.”

You shake your head, unable to stop the smile that tugs at your lips. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into an embrace. Here, in his arms, you let the mask slip, leaning into him, your forehead resting against his.

Rhaegar presses a kiss to your temple, a soft, lingering touch. “You are my strength, my fire,” he whispers, his voice a tender murmur against your skin. “There is no one like you, Y/N.”

Your heart swells, a rare vulnerability surfacing as you look up at him. “And you, Rhaegar, are my light in the darkness.” It is a confession, one only he is privy to, words meant for him alone. You lift your hand, fingers tracing the line of his jaw before you pull him down, capturing his lips in a gentle, lingering kiss.

The world falls away, the courtyard, the Red Keep, the weight of your family’s expectations—none of it matters in this moment. It is just you and him, bound together by love and fire, a bond forged in the flames of your shared heritage.

When you finally pull back, breathless, you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His hand strokes your hair, the gesture soothing, and for once, you allow yourself to relax completely, to be vulnerable in a way you never are with anyone else.

“I love you, Rhaegar,” you whisper, the words slipping past your lips, unbidden but true. It is rare for you to say it, to voice the depth of your feelings, but with him, you can. You always can.

He holds you tighter, his own voice soft but steady. “And I love you, Y/N. Always.”

The courtyard, once filled with the sound of clashing blades, is now quiet, the only sound the soft murmur of your breath mingling with his. In this moment, you are not the fierce warrior, the Targaryen princess, or the daughter of a mad king. You are simply Y/N, held close by the man you love, your heart safe in his hands.

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Imagine Shanks teaching you how to use a sword part 1

You: *gets swept away by the sea towards the Red Force*

Shanks: Well, well, well, what do we have here?

You: *steals the sword from a Lime Juice's scabbard and Points it at Shanks* Stay back!

Shanks: Careful there love, that's not a toy that you point at someone unless you mean it.

You: *eyes darting between the men as you try to shrink away from them*

Shanks: * gestures for his crew to give you space* We aren't gonna hurt you, so just put that~

You: Not going to hurt me, HA, don't make me laugh. That's all you men do.

Shanks: What makes you think that?

You: Personal experience.

Shanks: If I let you keep the sword, would that make you feel safer?

You: * searches his eyes and sees no deceit* ...yes.

Shanks: *suddenly advances and uses his sword to deflect the blade without pulling it fully out of its sheath.* Then I'm going to need you to stop pointing at at people.

You: 😠 *twists the blade around, completely disarming Shanks, and presses the dull edge against his shoulder*

Shanks: 😳 You: don't tell me what to do.

Benn: ho ho, been quite a while since someone had gotten you away from you. Do you fancy them or something, boss?

The Crew: *laughs*

Shanks: *uses his Conqueror's haki to render you unconscious, but catches you before you fall* Can you blame me? They're awfully cute?

You: *wakes up in Shanks' bed an hour later, and jumps up*

Shanks: *closes his book and and crosses his legs in the chair beside the bed* Good, you're awake... Now, I don't know where you came from, but we can't divert our course for you. We can, however, drop you off at the next island when we get there in about a week.

You: So I have to stay here, for a week.

Shanks: yes, but you'll be fine. No one is gonna hurt you, here *hands you a different sword* Just stick with me, and I'll make sure nothing happens to you. Okay?

You: okay, I'm (y/n) *offers your hand out to him*

Shanks: Glad we have an agreement, *Shakes your hand* I'm Shanks

You: *your sparse brain cells click into place* The emperor?

Shanks: Ha ha, yeah, but we're cool.

Shanks: Parry, parry, ... Oof!

You: *sweeps and lunges, elbowing him in the stomach*

Shanks: wow, you're a natural! If your skill keeps growing at this rate, I might offer you a spot on my crew.

You: Sure why not?

Shanks: he he, sweet, now keep sparring, but this time I want you to fight Hongo. You rely too heavily on the fact that I only have one arm.

You: *smirks at him* Bring it

List of Up-and-coming works

Support me on Kofi and Patreon

[corpseri]

ᝰ.ᐟ serenity | 025 (route 1)

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ novel: twtptflob/roxana

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ databank: here

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ word count: 2.8k

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ tags: @evaxmisu, @00hellohello00, @welpthisisboring, @hsrvl264, @flyingpansaurus, @semi-wife, @elvinapandra

◄ PREVIOUS CHAPTER NEXT CHAPTER ►

the next day:

the sky was a bruised shade of grey, thick with the promise of an incoming storm. dion insisted you both take a walk, his grip firm but not unkind as he guided you through the ruined courtyard. your arm trembled where it was wrapped around his, though whether from fear, exhaustion, or the weight of grief, you weren’t sure. he killed roxana with those hands. if i had just asked… if i had just persisted and asked what my father told him, maybe she would still be alive. maybe we all wouldn’t die.

you could barely breathe past the tightness in your chest. you wanted to pull away, to run — but you knew there was nowhere to go. dion was unshaken, his expression unreadable, as if last night’s bloodshed was already fading from his memory. but you couldn’t forget. you wouldn’t.

then a voice shattered the uneasy quiet.

“dion!”

the sound sent ice down your spine, and you turned just as jeremy stormed toward you both, his face contorted with grief and fury. his sword was already drawn, trembling in his grasp as he pointed it at dion’s chest. oh god.

“you killed her,” jeremy spat, his voice cracking. “you murdered ana!”

dion’s expression remained cold, impassive. “she was in my way.”

why would he say it like that? you felt sick, nausea creeping up your throat. jeremy’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing as his pain twisted into rage.

“i’ll have your head for this,” jeremy snarled, charging without another word.

their blades met in an explosion of steel, sparks flying as dion deflected jeremy’s wild, furious strikes. you stumbled back, barely able to process what was happening. jeremy, no — you don’t understand. dion will kill you.

jeremy was fast, his movements fueled by sheer anger and sorrow, but dion was measured — each parry, each counterattack executed with deadly precision.

jeremy swung wide, aiming for dion’s neck, but dion ducked and slammed his elbow into jeremy’s ribs. jeremy staggered back, wheezing, but his grip on his sword only tightened. he came at dion again, his strikes growing more erratic, more desperate.

stop — please, just stop! the words stuck in your throat. you wanted to intervene, to do something, but your legs wouldn’t move. you could only watch, helpless, as the battle raged before you.

dion sidestepped a thrust, grabbed jeremy’s wrist, and twisted. jeremy gasped in pain, but instead of letting go, he drove his knee into dion’s stomach. dion grunted, stumbling back, and in that moment of hesitation, jeremy lunged, cutting a shallow gash across dion’s arm.

blood dripped onto the stone, and dion’s gaze darkened.

“you’re persistent,” dion admitted, rolling his shoulder. “but you’re not strong enough.”

jeremy let out a guttural scream, charging again. their blades clashed in a brutal, relentless rhythm — strike, block, counter, repeat. jeremy fought with everything he had, every ounce of pain channeled into his movements, but dion was like a specter, gliding through the chaos, striking with deadly accuracy.

then dion saw his opening.

jeremy overextended, his balance thrown off as he went for a reckless overhead strike. dion sidestepped and, with lightning speed, drove his blade through jeremy’s stomach.

you froze. your breath stopped. no. no, no, no—

jeremy’s breath hitched. his sword fell from his hands, clattering against the stone as he staggered, gasping for air. dion twisted the blade before pulling it free, stepping back as jeremy dropped to his knees, blood pooling beneath him.

jeremy’s gaze lifted, his eyes glassy with disbelief. his lips moved, but no words came out.

you took a shaky step forward, your heart hammering in your chest. dion actually did it. he killed him.

dion sighed, kneeling beside him. “stay dead,” he murmured, almost as if offering some twisted sense of respect.

jeremy’s body shuddered once, then went still. the storm finally broke, rain beginning to fall, washing away the blood as dion stood and walked away, leaving the dead behind.

you stood there, shaking, unable to move. unable to speak. what have i done?

you stared at dion, your body trembling, fear coiling tightly in your chest. his blade was still slick with jeremy’s blood, the rain smearing crimson against steel. his face, unreadable. cold. the weight of his actions settled in your gut like stone.

you turned and walked away.

dion did not follow, but his voice carried through the storm. "where are you going?"

you didn’t stop. "to say goodbye. one last time."

your feet carried you through the corridors of the ruined stronghold, past the flickering torches and the scent of damp stone, until you reached the cell. cassis’ cell. he sat in the dim light, his neck still bound, his head tilted slightly upward as if listening to something you couldn’t hear. when he noticed you, his face softened, a flicker of warmth cutting through the exhaustion in his eyes.

"you came back." his voice was hoarse, but not broken. "i thought you might."

tears burned in your eyes. "roxana is dead."

cassis inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t look away. "i know."

“how?”

“i hear… the guards talking. they really don’t know how to keep their mouths shut.”

"you’ll die too. i just wanted to say goodbye one last time."

for a long moment, silence stretched between you. your breath hitched, grief clawing its way up your throat. cassis exhaled slowly, nodding as if he had already made peace with it. "i thought so."

you gritted your teeth. "aren’t you angry? aren’t you afraid?"

he gave you a tired smile, something impossibly gentle. "would it change anything if i was?"

you swallowed, stepping closer, your hands gripping the iron bars until your knuckles ached. "you don’t deserve this. none of this is fair."

cassis’ gaze softened. "life has never been fair. but you know that, don’t you?"

your chest ached. "i should’ve done something. i should’ve—"

"stop." his voice was quiet but firm. "you were never meant to carry this. you came to this world without your consent, thrown into a setting with different customs and traditions, and you still survived. that’s enough."

a tear slipped down your cheek. cassis shifted, the chains around his wrists rattling as he tried to reach for you, but the distance between you was too great. "it’s not enough," you whispered.

"it has to be."

the sound of boots echoed behind you. a guard approached, his expression nonchalant, his posture stiff. "it’s time for you to leave."

your hands curled into fists, your body screaming at you to fight, to stay, to do something — but cassis only smiled again, a quiet, resigned thing, and nodded toward you. "go."

your breath shuddered. "i don’t want to leave you."

"you already did." his voice was kind, as if forgiving you for something you could never forgive yourself for. "but i understand."

the guard stepped forward, reaching for your arm. you pulled back at first, then forced yourself to move. one step. then another. you turned to look at cassis one last time, but he had already closed his eyes, his face tilted back toward the dim light above him, waiting.

you walked away. and this time, you didn’t look back.

the next day:

the evening air is heavy with tension, a strange stillness settling over the estate as twilight deepens into night. you sit by the window, fingers idly tracing patterns against the cold glass as you stare out at the darkening sky. the last hints of daylight fade into deep purples and grays, casting long shadows across the gardens. something about tonight feels off. was it because of roxana? was today the day she planned to let cassis escape?

the thought lingers, unsettling you. you shake your head, trying to focus on something else, but an unshakable dread pools in your stomach. the estate is too quiet. it’s the kind of silence that suffocates, pressing against your chest until you feel like you might choke on it. the candlelight flickers beside you, casting erratic shapes against the walls. i should’ve left when i had the chance.

a sudden yell shatters the silence.

“found it! the intruder!”

your heart stutters violently. you bolt upright, ears straining to catch every word. below, a group of guards scrambles through the gardens, weapons drawn. from your vantage point, you see lante turn sharply toward them, his crimson cloak whipping around him, the color darkened in the dim light.

“you found it?” his voice is sharp, demanding.

one of the guards hesitates, glancing nervously at his comrades. “i… that is…”

before he can explain, a piercing screech cuts through the night air. the bushes tremble violently, rustling as something large stirs within them. then, the unmistakable sound of legs — too many legs — skittering against the ground makes your stomach drop.

a karantul beast.

the monstrous creature emerges, its twisted limbs clawing at the earth as its many eyes glisten with a predatory gleam. the guards brace themselves, but the creature does not attack. it merely roars, disoriented, as if realizing it has been discovered.

“it seems a karantul was left over from the last escape,” one of the guards finally manages to say, his voice strained.

lante watches, his gaze unreadable. then, in a commanding tone, he declares, “bring it alive for now.”

the guards snap to attention, their weapons shifting into position. “yes!” they yell in unison, quickly moving to restrain the beast. ropes coil around its spindly limbs, and it screeches again, thrashing wildly. but the guards are efficient; they overpower it within moments, forcing it into submission.

you remain by the window, fingers gripping the sill as you observe the scene unfold. the karantul is dragged across the gardens, its struggling body leaving deep grooves in the damp soil. lante���s expression is impassive, but his posture speaks volumes — he is pleased. he thinks he’s gained something valuable today.

“we go to the sorcery camp,” he announces, turning away. the guards give another resounding shout of obedience before dragging the captured creature off the premises.

you exhale slowly, breath fogging against the glass. your chest tightens. if only i had waited two more days to visit father’s house… they wouldn’t have had to die.

regret coils in your stomach, constricting tighter and tighter until it feels unbearable. you press your forehead against the cool glass, trying to steady your racing thoughts, but it does little to ease the suffocating guilt.

why did i leave when i did? your nails dig into your palms. i should have known better. i should have seen this coming.

i never should have tried to change the story.

your thoughts spiral, unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. every breath feels too shallow, every sound amplified — the rustling of leaves outside, the distant clank of metal armor, the low murmurs of the guards. the candlelight flickers again, casting twisting shadows against the walls, and for a moment, it feels like the darkness is closing in around you.

you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing hard. i can’t change what’s already happened. but even as you tell yourself that, the regret gnaws at you, relentless and unforgiving.

a gust of wind rattles the windowpane, and your reflection in the glass distorts, the flickering light making your face look hollow, unfamiliar. the weight of your choices presses down harder. you can’t breathe. your hands shake as you pull away from the window, clutching your arms as if to hold yourself together.

a distant cry echoes through the night, faint but unmistakable.

you freeze.

that wasn’t the karantul.

your eyes snap back to the garden, scanning the darkness. the guards are already gone, the beast taken away. but the estate is vast, and beyond the immediate grounds, the forest stretches endlessly. the cry came from somewhere within the trees. a sharp, pained sound.

was it… cassis?

a chill runs down your spine. if roxana planned to let him escape tonight, then—

you press a hand over your mouth, suppressing the urge to scream. the what—ifs are eating you alive. if i had stayed away, cassis would have gotten out safely.

another cry. this time, weaker.

no… he wouldn’t. the butterflies were his key to survival. but i…

you can’t just sit here.

your feet move before your mind catches up. you don’t think — you just act, slipping away from the window and into the dimly lit corridors of the estate. your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you step carefully, avoiding creaky floorboards, sticking to the shadows.

the halls feel endless, stretching into a maze of uncertainty. every candle flicker makes your pulse quicken, every shadow warps into something sinister.

somewhere in the distance, you hear voices. guards? servants? you don’t know.

you move slowly, your body feeling heavier with each step as exhaustion and the weight of tonight’s events press down on you. every muscle aches, not from physical exertion, but from the sheer mental toll of everything. you lift a shaky hand to your temple, rubbing at the dull headache forming behind your eyes. a deep sigh escapes your lips as you lean against the wall for support, trying to steady your breathing.

"this wasn't how it was supposed to go."

you had done everything right — or at least, you thought you had. and yet, all you could feel was regret gnawing at your insides like a festering wound. if only you had waited two more days. if only you had never come back.

then, a voice — soft yet commanding — breaks through your thoughts.

“go back.”

you startle, sucking in a sharp breath as you spin around, your pulse skyrocketing. dion stands behind you, his arms wrapping around your body with a familiarity that should bring comfort, but instead, it only makes your heart pound harder. his chin rests against your shoulder, his presence both grounding and suffocating.

“dion…” your voice is barely above a whisper, still shaky from the events of the night.

he doesn’t let you speak further. “go to our room,” he murmurs, his tone leaving no room for argument. “i’ll deal with this.”

there’s a quiet authority in his voice, one that settles deep in your bones. he gently nudges you forward, his hands lingering on your shoulders before releasing you. the warmth of his touch lingers even after he steps back.

as you walk toward your room, your thoughts spiral further into chaos.

everything had been leading up to something, and yet… it had unraveled before your eyes. you don’t know what to feel anymore. fear? guilt? frustration? it all blends together, forming a knot in your chest so tight you can barely breathe.

by the time you reach your room, your movements are sluggish, your body too drained to process anything properly. the moment you step inside, dion follows, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. he wastes no time, motioning for you to sit on the bed.

you obey without a word, your body sinking into the mattress. it creaks slightly beneath your weight, the faniliar sensation grounding you for a brief moment.

dion watches you for a moment before speaking again. “pack your things,” he instructs. “we’re leaving as soon as i say.”

the statement is so sudden, so final, that it takes a few seconds to process. your head snaps up, eyes wide with confusion. “leaving?”

“i have it covered,” he cuts in before you can ask anythimg else. “you don’t need to worry.”

his voice is steady — so calm that it’s almost unsettling. how could he be so composed when everythimg was falling apart?

you want to ask more. you want to demand answers. where are you going? why now? what does he know that you don’t?

but the words die in your throat when you see the look in his eyes.

this isn’t a discussion.

you swallow hard, forcing yourself to nod. “okay.”

dion lingers for a second longer, his gaze searching yours, as if making sure you won’t question him further. then, with a quiet sigh, he turns on his heel and heads for the door. his footsteps are controlled, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a sense of urgency hidden beneath his usual cool demeanor.

just as he reaches the door, he glances back at you. “be ready.”

and then, he’s gone.

the silence left in his absence is deafening.

you let out a slow breath, pushimg yourself up fron the bed. your hands move automatically, reaching for the few belongings you have. there isn’t much — just enough to fill a snall bag. clothes, a few personal itens, nothimg nore.

as you fold each piece carefully, your mind drifts back to everything that’s happemed. to roxana. to cassis. to the inescapable fact that this life — the one you had tried to build — was crunbling before your very eyes.

and all you could do now was run.

[jonathanspenguinboxers]

Valucelyn drabble

I haven't written with the intention of posting for a while so be gentle. I'm getting my post-worthy writer flow back. Drabble of Valentine and Jocelyn staking their claim over poor Luke (this is cannon and thats just so beautiful to me, Luke deserves to be fought over) I'll post the ao3 link which will be an extended version later!

Luke had made the mistake of laughing too loudly. 

Two heads twisted, though one had already started to walk across the lawn, leaving the accumulation of eager ears surrounding him staring perplexed. 

Michael, the offender, sighed next to Luke. “Your boyfriend's coming,” 

Luke’s eyebrows shot up, but before he could contend, Valentine was sidling up to them, a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes framing his wind-flushed face, “What’s so funny?” 

“Oh, nothing,” Luke said, shrugging. Valentine leaned against the wall, an arm above his head, “Michael was just telling me about something.” 

Valentine glanced at Michael, bored. “I could hear you across the lawn,” 

Michael raised his palms in surrender, “He’s all yours. I’ll make myself scarce,” he said, “Robert probably fell into a ditch without any adult supervision.” 

Luke chuckled, “Godspeed, Michael. May your kindness be everlasting,” 

“Kind? Whoever said I was kind? I fully plan on leaving him there, after a good laugh,” Michael said, walking away and waving a lanky arm without looking back. Luke heard him mutter something intangible. 

“So you and Michael are pretty good friends, then?” Valentine asked. He was very close, and Luke could smell the sun on his skin. His gaze hadn’t left Luke. 

“Nope. I hate that guy,” Luke said dryly. 

“He is pretty funny,” Valentine conceded. 

“Are you ok?” Luke asked, squinting, “I think… I think you just complimented him. Was that your intention?” 

“Never, I’m a terrible person,” 

Valentine’s smile widened when Luke snorted. 

“So, how about we go to the city today? Just you and me. I’ve been needing new gloves, lunch is on me,” It always was on him; Luke was the less fortunate of the two. 

“Not today, sorry. I’m booked for the afternoon,” 

Valentine’s smile wavered, “Doing what?” 

“Jocelyn’s helping me with my parry,” Luke said, shyly, despite the fact that Valentine was fully aware of his hurdles regarding swordplay. 

Valentine’s face went bleak, “Oh,” he looked away for a moment, then recovered, “I’ll join you,” 

Luke raised a brow, “You don’t need help with your parry.” 

“Nonesense,” Valentine deflected, “One can never stop learning,” 

Luke grimaced. This was a terrible idea. “Jocelyn… doesn’t like you all that much,” 

“Well, we might as well get acquainted, I am, after all, your parabatai. If she wants to see you, then she has to get used to seeing me too,” 

“I don’t think this is healthy.” 

Valentine pushed himself off the wall, dusting off his leather gear. “I’ll see you tonight then?” 

Luke winced. 

It was going as well as he thought it would. Jocelyn and Valentine were shooting glares. The tension was britle and insufferable. Valentine was scrutinizing and his presence was loud. Jocelyn did her best to ignore Valentine, taking firm hold of Luke’s arm, guiding him through the movements, her fingers slipping around his, rolling his thumb to the correct side of the hilt. Valentine’s stare darkened the longer she pulled him around, to Jocelyn's apparent pleasure. 

Jocelyn’s finger grazed Luke’s knuckles, remarking on how they should flex like a wave, and Luke shivered unconsciously at the featheriness of her touch. 

“You’re doing that wrong.” Valentine interrupted. Once again. 

Luke saw Jocelyn’s eye twitch. She slowly turned her attention. “By all means, please show us how the mighty Morgenstern holds a sword,” 

Valentine stepped between them, and Jocelyn took a hefty step back. Luke closed his eyes. It would be over soon. 

Valentine’s chest was pressed against Luke’s shoulder in an instant as he took full governance over Luke’s body, and instinctually, Luke’s listened. His hand followed the line of Luke’s arm, a light knuckle caressing his skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake, straightening it, fixing his elbow. His hands were cool and calloused. “It starts at the shoulder. It doesn’t matter how well he can grip, the force comes from here,” 

Valentine pressed a hand to Luke’s core. Luke’s skin jumped, and he flushed at the intimate gesture, especially considering Jocelyn's eyes flickered disapprovingly at it. “And it extends through the entire arm.” 

“His posture was fine, that’s why I didn’t correct it,” Jocelyn said. 

“He slouches.” 

“Hey!” Luke interjected, though both of them ignored him. 

“That’s because we’re not actually fighting. The focus on his grip, thats his trouble spot, when we begin to fight, then the rest comes along,” She put her hands on her hip, and Luke internally sighed. Someone was going to bleed today. His name rhymed with ‘asinine’. 

Valentine walked over to the weapon wall, and picked a long, beautiful broadsword. His fingers swept across the silver adoringly, “Show me, then,” 

Luke frowned, “I don’t have gear,” 

Valentine grinned, “I would never hurt you, Lucian. You’re too pretty, and I have to look at you for the rest of my life,” 

“Thanks,” Luke muttered, and set himself in position. 

Immediately, Valentine fell out of his stance, pleased, “You see? Slouched.” 

Jocelyn shot Luke a glare. He shrugged benignly. 

“Maybe we should continue this another time,” Luke said, as he saw the look in her eye. 

“Fine, but I think it’s unproductive to have two teachers,” she said, leveling Valentine’s amused gaze. 

“I agree,” Valentine said lightly, “And as I am his parabatai, I will graciously take the burden off your shoulders.” 

“He was mine first,” Jocelyn enunciated. 

“I can just spar with both of you separately,” Luke tried, swallowing thickly, though his voice was drowned out by the tip of Jocelyn’s blade etching the floor as she circled. 

Valentine followed the predatory ring, lazily swinging the heavy sword, “Was he? I don’t recall any rune marking his skin that says so.” 

Jocelyn grinned, “It’s in a place you don’t have the privilege to see,” 

Luke was horrified, “Please stop.” 

Valentine laughed, “Cheeky, Fairchild,” 

“I’m sparring with Luke for now on. I appreciate your concern with him, but you wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly as to deny a girl her wishes, now would you?” 

Valentine propped an eyebrow, “Of course not,” but a smile was playing on his lips, “How about you spar me then? The victor gets to remain Lucian’s tutor—though it should be noted that I was the one to bring his grade up, despite your alleged concern for him and extensive friendship,” 

“Fine,” 

“Great,” 

“Shit.”

[valkyurii]

i don’t think fromsoft have ever made a boss before that i genuinely do not want to fight again on consecutive runs but then they made Prime Man 💀

[haythams-blade]

Family time with the Kenways.

Summary: Haytham and his wife practice their swordsmanship skills while their daughter plays with her toys. They discuss the future of their family.

(Y/n)= you’re name

(Y/d/n)= you’re daughters name

Warnings: Fluff mostly. No warnings. But all my work is +18 plus.

A/N: I wish we could get more Haytham so for now till Ubisoft hears my pleas, enjoy this piece ❤️

-

The crisp Virginia air hung heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth as Haytham Kenway, a figure of imposing stature and refined grace, parried (y/n)'s thrust with a resounding clang. His custom-tailored blue coat, impeccable even in the heat of mock battle, swirled around his long legs as he moved, the sunlight glinting off the silver Templar ring on his finger. (Y/n), a formidable woman in her own right, met his attack with a snarl, her own rapier a blur of motion.

Off to the side, their daughter, (y/d/n), sat cross-legged on a woven rug, oblivious to the dangerous display before her. Dolls lay scattered around her, evidence of a game momentarily forgotten as she watched her parents clash. The maids, though, were far from oblivious. They hovered near the edges of the lawn, their faces etched with a mixture of apprehension and disapproval.

The clanging of steel, the grunts of exertion, and the near misses were enough to send shivers down their spines. They knew better than to interrupt the Keyway’s.… unconventional displays of marital affection.

These were not polite parlour games; this was honed combat practice, a reminder of the dangerous world their employers inhabited, a world they glimpsed but never fully understood. The proximity of the flashing blades to anything breakable, or worse, to themselves, had them on edge. One handmaiden nearly dropped a tray of lemonade when Rhea’s rapier whizzed past, narrowly missing a rose bush.

“Perhaps, Madam, Kenway” she ventured hesitantly, “You might wish to move further from the house?”

(Y/N), without breaking her stride, retorted, “Nonsense, Agnes. Where’s the thrill in that?”

Haytham chuckled, parrying another of Rhea’s strikes. “Indeed, Agnes, you wound my wife’s dramatic sensibilities. Besides, a little danger keeps things interesting, wouldn’t you say, my dear?”

“Intensely, husband dearest” (Y/N) agreed, her breath coming in short gasps, but her eyes still bright with exhilaration. She feigned a lunge, then spun, attempting to catch him off guard with a quick backhand.

Haytham, however, anticipated the move. He side-stepped with practiced ease, his heavier blade connecting with hers with a resounding clang that sent vibrations up both their arms. He pressed his advantage, his greater strength and experience beginning to show. He could feel her tiring, just slightly, the almost imperceptible hesitation in her footwork, the fractional delay in her parries.

“Faster, (Y/N),” Haytham’s deep voice rumbled, laced with a hint of amusement. He feigned a lazy parry, letting her blade graze his sleeve, “Are you going to let me fall asleep out here?”

(Y/N)’s lips curled into a challenging smirk, “Hardly, husband. I was merely assessing your decrepit reflexes.” She lunged forward, her rapier a silver viper striking, aiming for a gap in his guard.

Haytham, though he appeared relaxed, was anything but. His movements were economical, precise, every block and counter a calculated move born of years of experience and brutal training. He allowed her to press him, enjoying the thrill of her aggression, the spark of her defiance. He knew his (Y/N) craved these moments, these tests of skill and will. In a world of clandestine meetings and hidden agendas, this was a rare space of honest confrontation, a raw expression of their shared, dangerous lives.

“You’re distracted,” he observed, his voice deceptively calm as he deflected her attack with a clang that vibrated through the air. “Thinking of the ball next week?”

“As if,” she scoffed, her breath coming in sharper bursts now. “I’m thinking about how to finally unseat you, Grand Master. Though I suspect you’ve glued yourself to that position quite firmly.” She sent a flirtatious smile back.

“It requires more than just a sharp blade, my dear (Y/N),” Haytham parried again, forcing her back a step.

“It requires strategy, foresight, and a certain… ruthlessness.” He deliberately emphasized the last word, watching her reaction.

Her eyes flashed. “Qualities I possess in abundance, I assure you.”

She feinted left, then right, attempting to catch him off guard. But Haytham was a master of deception himself. He saw through her feints as if they were transparent.

Their dance continued, a whirlwind of steel under the watchful eye of the sun. (y/d/n) continued to babble to her bear, her laughter a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere. The maids shifted nervously, their hands twisting in their aprons. One of them, a young girl named Eliza, nearly jumped when a stray spray of dirt kicked up by Haytham's foot landed near her hem.

Haytham's gaze flickered towards (y/d/n) for a split second. The sight of her, safe and content, fueled his resolve to protect everything he held dear. He returned his attention to his wife, his pale blue eyes, usually cold and calculating, now held a spark of playful amusement. He also couldn’t help but feel the attraction for his wife as she challenged him.

The maids still flitted around the periphery of the makeshift training arena, their faces etched with anxiety hoping that this would end soon. The Kenway estate was grand, a symbol of Haytham's power and influence in the New World, but the sight of it’s master and mistress engaged in such ferocious combat unsettled them.

The swords seemed to sing a dangerous song, the air growing tense with each riposte and parry. More than once, the maids had to duck and shuffle to avoid the swords.

"You're getting sloppy, my dear," Haytham drawled, his voice a low rumble that carried over the clash of steel. He deliberately let (y/n)'s blade come too close, a controlled risk designed to provoke her.

(Y/n)'s eyes narrowed. "I'm merely warming up, Haytham darling. Don't let your ego get ahead of your skill." She lunged, her rapier aimed at his chest, but Haytham easily sidestepped the attack, his own blade deflecting hers with practiced ease.

"Ego is a useful tool, (y/n), when wielded with precision." He disengaged, circling her, his movements like a wild predator stalking his prey. "But precision requires discipline, and discipline requires acknowledging one's limitations."

He knew he was baiting her. He was a master swordsman, honed by years of training and experience. (Y/n) was beyond skilled, but she was no match for her skilled husband. He always held back, subtly, letting her believe she stood a chance, feeding her firey competitive spirit.

His wife, however, refused to back down. She pressed her attack, a flurry of strikes that kept Haytham on his toes. She was fast, agile, and unforgiving. It was this ferocity he loved about her, this unwavering spirit that burned bright beneath her regal facade. It drew him to her.

With a final, decisive move, Haytham disarmed her. His rapier snaked around hers, locking it in place, and with a swift twist, he sent it clattering to the ground. He stood over her, his chest heaving slightly, his gaze locked on hers.

(Y/d/n), seeing her mother's defeat, let out a squeal of delight. "Papa won! Papa won!" She clapped her hands, her small face radiant with joy. "Again, Papa! Again!"

The maids, letting out a collective sigh of relief, hurried to retrieve (y/n)'s fallen weapon before the child could.

(Y/n), lying on her back in the grass, looked up at Haytham, her eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and affection. The fight had flushed her cheeks, and her hair had come loose from its elegant coil.

Haytham sheathed his broadsword, the heavy steel sliding smoothly into its scabbard. He looked to (Y/n), a genuine (not to mention handsome) smile softening his usually stern features.

“You fought well, my dear. As always.” He knew it was an understatement. His wife was a skilled fighter, but today he had not held back his win. Not wanting to bruise her pride he let her win sometimes, but ensuring he remained the victor majority of the time. He wouldn't admit that to her, of course.

"You let me win sometimes, you know," she said, her voice laced with a hint of knowing humour and accusation.

"Do I? I must be losing my edge." He offered her a large hand, pulling her to her feet.

As she stood with the help of her husband , (y/n) gaze traveled over his broad chest, down to his muscled thighs. The sweat sticking his shirt to his skin made her feel some type of way. "Hmm, I doubt that." She brushed a stray blade of grass from his coat. "Perhaps you simply enjoy the view from above."

Haytham leaned down, his breath warm against her ear as he pulled her into him, "Indeed," he whispered, "the view is quite… captivating." He tilted his head and kissed her long and passionately. Her heart began to race.

As they broke apart (Y/n)‘s gaze lingering on the way his muscles flexed beneath his linen shirt, the way the autumn sunlight caught the edges of his dark hair.

There was something undeniably captivating about Haytham in combat, this raw display of power and control. It ignited a familiar fire within her, a primal attraction that even years of marriage had not diminished.

“Stop changing the subject Haytham. You are always going easy on me. We both know this.” she accused, though there was no real anger in her voice, only a playful challenge.

Haytham raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Do I? Perhaps you’re simply improving at such a rapid pace that my usual efforts appear… lessened.”

She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that always warmed him. “Oh, you silver-tongued devil.” She stepped closer, the playful banter giving way to a more serious tone. “But you’re right. I need to be faster, stronger. The Order… our enemies… they are not so forgiving in their ‘sparring sessions’.”

Haytham’s expression turned serious. He took her hand, his large fingers engulfing hers. “Precisely. You take unnecessary risks, Rhea. You are… audacious.” He squeezed her hand gently and placed a kiss on her lips, “And while I admire your spirit, you must be more cautious.”

Breaking the kiss, Haytham’s face turned serious. "This wasn't just a game my love. Your enemies won't be as… accommodating as your husband."

(Y/n) pulled her hand away, a hint of defiance flickering back into her eyes.

“Cautious? You keep me locked away in this estate, Haytham. You hardly let me breathe, let alone participate in any truly ‘dangerous’ missions.”

“That is hardly fair, my love ,” Haytham countered, his voice firm but soft. “And you know perfectly well why. We have a daughter, (Y/n). (Y/d/n) needs her mother. I need my wife. The Order, our work, it demands sacrifice, yes. But it does not demand we abandon our responsibilities to our family.” He glanced towards his daughter who was now attempting to dress her bear in a miniature bonnet.

(Y/n) followed his gaze, her expression softening. She watched their daughter for a moment, a wave of material tenderness washing over her features.

“I know,” she murmured, almost reluctantly.

“But sometimes… sometimes I feel… stifled. Like I’m meant for more than just… balls and tea parties.”

Haytham stepped closer to her, cupping her face in his hands. "You contribute more than you know," he said reminded gently. "You are the rock upon which this family is built. You give me strength, my dear. And you give our daughter a mother she can be proud of."

He looked into her eyes, his own a deep, unwavering blue. “You are meant for more, (Y/n). You are vital to the Order, to our plans. And you are vital to me, and to our daughter.”

He lowered his voice, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, “"Besides," he murmured, his eyes twinkling, "Perhaps it's time we considered expanding our family. (Y/d/n) could use a sibling."

(Y/n)’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, surprised and intrigued. The idea, though unexpected, resonated with a deep, hidden desire. She had always envisioned a larger family, more children to fill the echoing halls of the estate with laughter and life. And the thought of creating another child with Haytham, this powerful, complex, brute of a man… it was undeniably appealing. Haytham chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through her very being. The maids avoided eye contact, acutely aware of the palpable tension that crackled between the couple. He lowered his head, placing a soft kisses on her neck.

(Y/n)'s eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck. "Haytham!" she gasped, but a playful smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

He chuckled, pulling her close, "What? Don't you think I'd make a good father again my dear wife? Or perhaps you think you’re no longer up to the task?" Smirking he captured her lips in a deep, passionate kiss, silencing her protest. The heat between them flared, a tangible force that pushed aside any lingering anxieties or disagreements. (Y/d/n), oblivious to the adult conversation, continued to play with her toys, her innocent laughter echoing through the air. The maids, their faces still strained, discreetly began to pack away the training equipment, grateful that the day's daily Kenway drama was over.

As Haytham and (y/n) remained locked in their embrace, lost in their own private world, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Kenway estate. The air grew cooler, and the scent of pine became more intense. But within the circle of their love, a warmth lingered, a promise of shared passion and enduring devotion.

Haytham pulled back slightly, his blue eyes filled with affection. "I love you, (y/n)," he whispered.

(Y/n) leaned into him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "And I love you, Haytham," she replied, her voice filled with sincerity. "Even when you're being insufferable."

He laughed, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the Virginia countryside. He knew their life was fraught with danger, that the Templar Order demanded sacrifice and commitment. But in the arms of his wife, surrounded by the love of his daughter, he found a haven, a sanctuary from the chaos of the world. And he would protect it, with every breath he took, with every ounce of his strength. The Kenway legacy would continue, forged in steel, bound by love, and forever etched in the annals of history.

[cynic-spirit]

Aemond Finds out Y/n can sword fight

Aemond had always known Y/N was special—there was an undeniable spark between them, something that made him feel as if he was the luckiest man in the world. But what happened that afternoon in the training hall took his admiration for her to an entirely new level.

It was just another day for Aemond, sharpening his skills in the training hall. The echo of clashing steel reverberated through the room as he practiced his swordsmanship, his focus solely on perfecting his technique. He was in his element, every movement precise, every strike controlled. It was his sanctuary, a place where he could push himself to his limits and let go of the burdens that came with being who he was.

But today, there was something different. He sensed it before he saw it—the subtle shift in the air, the tingling on the back of his neck that told him he wasn’t alone. Aemond paused mid-swing, his keen senses picking up on the presence behind him. He turned around, only to find Y/N standing at the entrance, dressed in training clothes that hugged her form perfectly, a sword in hand, and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Maybe you need a worthy challenger, Mr. Targaryen,” she said, her voice playful, yet there was a challenge in her tone that sent a thrill through him.

Aemond blinked, taken aback but quickly recovering with a grin. He couldn’t believe his fortune—here was Y/N, his soulmate, standing before him with a sword in hand, challenging him in the most unexpected way. It was a side of her he hadn’t seen before, and he found himself even more captivated by her.

“Are you serious?” he asked, though his excitement was palpable.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, twirling the sword in her hand with surprising skill. “What’s the matter? Afraid I might beat you?” she teased, stepping into the training area, her movements confident and graceful.

Aemond’s grin widened. “Not in the slightest, love,” he replied, his tone laced with both affection and the thrill of the challenge. He stepped towards her, his own sword still in hand. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Y/N smirked, raising her sword into a ready position. “We’ll see about that.”

Without another word, they began to circle each other, the atmosphere in the room charged with anticipation. Aemond watched her closely, noting the determination in her eyes and the way she held her sword—steady, confident, with the posture of someone who knew what they were doing. It was clear she wasn’t just playing around.

The first clash of their swords rang out, and Aemond immediately realized that Y/N was no amateur. Her strikes were quick and precise, her movements fluid as she engaged him in a duel that was as thrilling as it was unexpected. Aemond found himself on the defensive more than he anticipated, pleasantly surprised by her skill.

“You’ve been hiding this from me,” Aemond remarked between strikes, his voice filled with admiration as he parried one of her blows.

Y/N grinned, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I thought I’d keep a few surprises up my sleeve,” she replied, her voice breathless but exhilarated.

Aemond chuckled, his heart swelling with pride and affection for her. Each clash of their swords was a testament to her talent, and he couldn’t help but be impressed. She was pushing him, challenging him in ways he hadn’t expected, and he loved every second of it.

But Aemond, ever the strategist, wasn’t about to let her win so easily. As they dueled, he began to use more than just his sword to gain the upper hand. During a brief pause, he suddenly stepped closer, catching her off guard as he leaned in and stole a quick kiss.

Y/N gasped, momentarily distracted, which Aemond took full advantage of. He swung his sword towards her, only for her to narrowly deflect it at the last second, her cheeks flushed from the unexpected kiss.

“Aemond!” she exclaimed, a mix of indignation and amusement in her voice.

“What?” he said with a playful smirk, “I’m just using all my resources.”

She shook her head, trying to focus, but Aemond could see the smile tugging at her lips. They continued their duel, the playful banter and stolen kisses adding a layer of intimacy to their sparring match. Aemond would lean in whenever he saw an opening, capturing her lips in a brief, heated kiss before pulling back to avoid her counterattack.

Y/N tried to keep up, but the combination of Aemond’s skill and his distracting kisses made it increasingly difficult. She could feel herself getting lost in the thrill of the fight and the heat of their exchanges, her mind torn between the desire to win and the desire to kiss him back just as fiercely.

Finally, Aemond saw his opportunity. With a quick maneuver, he disarmed her, sending her sword clattering to the ground. Before she could react, he swiftly wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him and sealing their duel with a deep, passionate kiss that left her breathless.

Y/N melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck as she surrendered to the kiss, the thrill of the fight giving way to something far more intimate. When they finally broke apart, Aemond’s forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing heavily, their hearts pounding in unison.

“I guess you win,” Y/N whispered, her voice tinged with both affection and playful defeat.

Aemond smirked, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “It’s not about winning, love,” he murmured, his voice soft and filled with adoration. “It’s about having you as my equal.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in to kiss him again, this time slow and tender, savoring the moment. Aemond responded in kind, his hold on her tightening as if he never wanted to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, Aemond’s eyes were filled with a mixture of pride and love. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he remarked, his tone teasing yet sincere.

Y/N smiled, resting her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out what else I’m hiding,” she replied, her voice playful.

Aemond chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m not going anywhere, my love,” he promised, holding her close. “I’ll be right here, ready for whatever challenge you throw at me.”

And as they stood there in the training hall, wrapped in each other’s arms, both of them knew that their love was a duel in itself—one filled with passion, surprises, and a bond that would only grow stronger with each passing day.

[beloveds-embrace]

HI ELYS ANON HERE AGAIN I've always loved ur fics tbh bc the reader in ur fics are very relatable to me (yes I have issues. yes I am working on it 🤩) is it really too much to be loved when you're a sopping wet sad girl smh not everyone can be a bad bitch thats able to square a six foot something of a man 😭😭😭 anyways before I forget I saw ur self sacrificing reader blurb a while back and it's always been on my brain.

Salf sacrificing characters has always been my bread and butter but Gen my fave flavor of it are the ones so.... Casual about it, like at first glance you'd think they'd be an upstanding normal member of society and they pull a move that puts themselves in danger and when confronted about ut they're so. Nonchalant about it????? But they're also self aware that whatever they have is not normal and the reason why they appear so normal in the first place is bc they've mastered the art of masking. But also don't want to "" fix whatever problem they have" and so will casually deflect and parry all your questions and concerns as a result 😭😭😭

If price and the others think each other are insufferable I can't help but laugh when they realize w a dawning horror that reader is in fact worse than all four of them combined good luck you bozos GDJSHJAHAJAJAJAJA

Right like lmfao reader DOES NOT care at all. Zero fucks given about their own personal safety, the type to cross roads without looking and handle electricity with wet hands and still manage to deflect all of the team’s attempts at intervention so it’s justa really weird unhappy cycle they are in with you 😔

[kioflerkira]

hi! if your requests are open, would you be willing to write for ethan nakamura? if so, can I please request something where it’s like enemies to lovers and the reader (female) is practicing sword fighting with him and he’s acting all cocky and showing off? please and thank you!

“ SHOW OFF ”

warnings: fluff, sword fighting pairings: e.nakamura x reader summary: ethan and you never got along. that was when you two sword fought, in the end did you two really dislike eachother now ?

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YOU WEREN’T SURE WHY YOU AGREED to spar with ethan nakamura. maybe it was pure boredom, or maybe it was the way he always smirked whenever he won against someone else, like he was untouchable. either way, you had your sword in hand, standing in the training arena at camp, regretting every life decision that led you to this moment.

ethan twirled his sword in one hand, that insufferable grin plastered on his face. “you sure you’re ready for this ?” he taunted. “i’d hate to embarrass you in front of everyone.”

you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “please. you act like you’re some legendary swordsman. you’re just a guy who got lucky a few times.”

he placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “ouch. you wound me.” then, without warning, he lunged forward.

you barely had time to block before the sound of clashing metal filled the air. he moved fast— faster than you expected —but you weren’t about to let him know that. you deflected each strike, stepping back just enough to stay out of his reach while you planned your next move.

ethan laughed under his breath. “you’re not bad, i’ll give you that. but I can tell you’re thinking too much.”

you gritted your teeth. he was trying to distract you, and unfortunately, it was working. he pressed forward, forcing you to parry blow after blow until he finally knocked your sword from your hand. it clattered to the ground a few feet away.

ethan lowered his blade, tilting his head as he examined you. “looks like I win.”

your eyes flickered to your sword, but before you could make a move for it, ethan took a step closer, closing the distance between you. “you’re not even a sore loser,” he mused. “that’s new.”

you rolled your eyes. “i’m just waiting for you to gloat so we can move on with our lives.”

he chuckled, the sound annoyingly charming. “oh, I plan on gloating for a while. but I have to admit, you kept up better than I expected.”

you crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “should I be flattered ?”

he smirked. “maybe.” then, with a sudden shift in his expression—something softer, more serious—he leaned in slightly. “you’re kind of fun to fight, you know.”

your breath hitched, but you masked it with a scoff. “don’t tell me this is your way of flirting.”

he gave a dramatic shrug. “what can I say ? there’s something about a girl who can hold her own against me.”

your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat, but you refused to let him see the effect he had on you. instead, you bent down quickly, grabbing your sword from the ground and pointing it at him. “rematch. right now.”

ethan grinned, stepping back and raising his blade. “oh, you’re on.”

and just like that, the game continued—only now, there was something different between you. but y’know, maybe you didn’t hate it as much as you thought you would.

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